Fireworks
by Littera
Summary: Sybil's and Tom's love story through the years, and all the other little moments that we missed.
1. Touch

**Chapter 1: Touch**

**1916**

He had held her hand plenty of times, in the way a chauffeur did when helping a lady out of an automobile. The leather of his thick driving gloves and the thinner, more expensive leather of her gloves would ensure there was no skin touching – in fact, it was such an impersonal gesture it could hardly be called 'touching' at all. But as he ran out into the garden to tell her the news of Gwen's success, Tom Branson hadn't put his gloves on. He hardly took the time buttoning up his jacket. While he didn't care much for the rules that separated the classes and indeed the upstairs and downstairs of Downton Abbey, he had learned to adhere to them, as a necessity, in order to keep his job. But right now, the happy news was more important than any repercussions from Mr Carson at being dishevelled.

The brilliant bubble of joy inside him bore him all the way through the crowded lawn, past the people all dressed up, eating and drinking, as if this was anything like a real picnic. As he whispered in her ear, and she quickly dragged him away, he was glad that it was because Sybil was as happy for Gwen as he was, not because she wanted him to be gone. In fact, the bright smile on her face and in her eyes was quite more delighted than she sometimes looked in company. As they found Gwen and told her the news, he couldn't stop smiling, and neither did they. That bright spark which had made him see lady Sybil differently than her sisters – not just a young lady, but one with opinions and an open mind – now burned clear.

She's learning how it feels to do good, Tom thought to himself, watching Lady Sybil speaking to Gwen. And not just the kind of good that is done with a basket sent to an ailing tenant, but the honesty of helping her fellow man, through diligence and hard work. He took her hand then, offering his own to hold simply by sliding his palm against hers. She had a pair of proper little gloves on, the sort his mother or sisters didn't even own, and it was thin enough that he could almost feel the softness and warmth of the skin under it.

A moment – an eternity – and he felt her fingers intertwine with his, hesitant at first and then squeezing his gently.

Sybil felt like there was a burning flame inside her, setting her alight from the tip of her nose to her fingertips. They had done it! Gwen wouldn't be miserable at Downton, dreaming about a future that couldn't be hers. Instead she was to be a secretary, a professional woman, and Sybil had helped her to achieve that goal. It was a strange feeling, to help someone else achieve a dream that she shared, but at the same time it was so much easier to help Gwen than help herself.

Life at the Abbey was set in it's ways, her father protesting any political expeditions she wished for and her mother always putting forward 'nice young men' that she should talk to. But they never wanted to talk about politics – they never wanted to talk about anything important at all! – and Sybil revelled in Gwen's exciting new future as if it was her own.

She hadn't wondered at all why Branson was the one to bring the message; there was surely some reason for it. But as he was here it was a grand thing to have him to share the joy with, as he understood better than anyone the longing she and Gwen felt to be useful, to do something of themselves. It was not freedom of vote for women, but it certainly meant freedom of dream for Sybil.

At first she thought Branson had touched her hand by mistake, and didn't consider it, but as the feeling persisted, she realised it was not. His hand was larger than hers, and she could feel the bare skin under her glove, a hand very much unlike any male hand she could compare it to. Branson's hand was used to hard work, she could feel the dainty fabric of her gloves catching on the calluses on his skin, the pads of his fingers almost rough.

Hesitantly she slid her hand into his, marvelling for a moment of the feeling of holding a man's hand. She was used to the gallantry of gentlemen, but that never affected her much, she had never thought it was anything more than rehearsed phrases. This was…_more_. Glancing up at Branson, she didn't realise that she was thinking of him as a man, a person, and not just a servant or a chauffeur. The feeling of their interlocked fingers had thrown her insides into a fluttery state and she wasn't at all sure what to do. It was Branson, after all! Branson, who spoke to her like an adult and gave her pamphlets and told her about the political news. When he talked to her he didn't just go 'yes milady' or 'no milady' like William or Mr Carson. He thought about her question and then answered – not out of respect for her title and position – but for her intellect and curiosity.

It was at the same time very shocking yet strangely natural, apart from the flutters in her stomach, the sensation of holding hands with Branson felt like something she had done regularly.

Mrs Hughes arrived with the promptness of a circling predator, scolding the blushing Gwen. For a moment Tom allowed himself a private smile over this little victory, however insignificant it might seem. If he had been courting a girl from the same circumstances as himself, holding hands would probably not have been such a huge steppingstone, but if the girl was Lady Sybil Crawley, who had never in her life touched a male servant in this way, the accomplishment was monumental. Her little hand in his gave him such hope as he hadn't dared to nourish before and he pressed her hand lightly to try and convey some of that.

Catching her looking up at him, her face a little surprised, but not displeased, he could not help but give her a half smile.

"I don't suppose…" he began, his voice low and almost a little breathless to his own ears. He wasn't quite sure what to say next, because this moment – this opportunity – had come when he didn't expect it, and it was one thing to unabashedly start a conversation about politics, astonishing Lady Sybil, and quite another to speak of other things. Yet as words formed in his mind, he couldn't help but to hope that the pressure of her hand in his had meant what he hoped, and that his words, his proposition wouldn't take her wholly by surprise.

But pressing her hand, he didn't get much further before Mrs Hughes took the situation in hand and all but dismissed Lady Sybil.

Tom could see how she didn't want to go, the curious spark in her eyes as she too wondered what he had been about to say. But while her longing to stay was obvious, it was also clear that whatever she suspected him to say, it was not the words he had been planning. Her face was smooth, she wasn't blushing and her eyes were warm, but not unduly so. This was not a young woman in love, this was one who wanted some decent conversation with a good friend, instead of tea and sandwiches with the gentry.

So he let her go, answering Mrs Hughes rather more harshly than perhaps he should have, trying to mask the feelings threatening to escape. Before this day he hadn't dared hope for anything, and now, having held her hand in his for just a moment, he suddenly had too much hope, more than he felt his poor heart could contain.


	2. Picnic

_The title of this fanfic is actually taken from the season 2 press bundle, where Allen Leech is questioned whether "can we expect more fireworks between Branson and Sybil in this series of Downton Abbey? Allen smiles and replies, "Absolutely!" Yes, I am that much of a nerd. Here's the next chapter, enjoy!_

**1916**

His impersonal touch as he helped her into the motor reminded Lady Sybil of how their hands had touched only a week before. Had it only been a week? So much had happened, and as Sybil watched Branson's neck, she wondered why he didn't turn around and cheerfully asked about her day, or told her about some new book he had read. Why wasn't he as he usually was, although he was a socialist, she had knew well his steadiness and honesty. That he wasn't speaking to her now, even though they were alone in the car, heading to Ripon to do some shopping and visit Cousin Isobel...well, it worried her; unsettled her.

The rest of the garden party had been a blur, papa delivering the news of the war, the second footman overturning a tray of champagne, Mary's eyes as if she had lost something terribly important and didn't know how to get it back. Suddenly it was all over, and they were seeing the guests off, motors and a few carriages parading in a seemingly endless line in front of the house. Most of the guests were pale and thoughtful, only a very few tried to pretend that they were unaffected by the news. "It shall all be over by Christmas", she heard them say cheerfully. "Our boys will show them!" But Sybil wasn't so sure, a war felt like such a momentous event for everyone involved, and that it could be over so soon? Wasn't a war something that would – and should – leave great scars on a nation?

These very thoughts she had hoped to air to Branson, as he wasn't only her friend, but the only one who credited her with enough brain and intelligence to speak frankly of what was happening. Her father would only tell her snippets, little bits and pieces that he thought she could know of and that wouldn't get her going about her 'politics'. But now Branson was being so uncooperative, not speaking to her and instead acting as if he was just the chauffeur. It unsettled Sybil for more reasons than his silence. It felt as if she had lost her friend and it felt as if all the progress they had made –she had made! – stepping away from being a lady and a chauffeur had disappeared.

"We are friends, Branson, are we not? I feel that you are displeased with me."

"Not at all my lady."

Silence.

"At the garden party, when Mrs Hughes told me mama were looking for me…you were about to say something?"

Over his shoulder she could see half a smile, a lifting of one corner of his mouth and for a moment Sybil's heart felt lighter, hopeful. But then he dashed it again by shaking his head slowly, even though he was still smiling.

"I couldn't say my lady."

Gripping the wheel tighter, Branson asked himself why he was punishing her. He did not like to cause suffering, especially not to her, but his heart had been heavy and confused after the garden party. He had thought he would gain some satisfaction from making her feel the same, for making her sad for just a moment, but as he regarded her steadily in the rear view mirror and caught the flash of pain in her eyes, he wasn't so sure anymore. It was a quick decision – Tom made most of his decisions swiftly without looking back and this one was the same. Another glance in the mirror, another look at her worried eyes, and then he smiled at her and made sure to catch her eyes in the mirror. It was positively endearing, the way a slow smile grew on her lips, how her whole face slowly lit up, just because she thought he was not angry with her any more. That, if anything, lit the hope in his heart again that she did care, even just a little.

"I was about to ask if you wanted to go for a walk with me, my lady," Tom said, wondering internally if that had been his plan at all. It was perhaps a little cheeky – chauffeurs did not walk out with young ladies – but in her face he saw only pleased surprised, not amazed and affronted displeasure. He wondered, not for the first time, how she had spent her first season in London when she obviously hadn't gained any experience with teasing and flirting. But as with most everything else about her, it only added to the allure and to her charm.

"So that was it! Well, I'm sad it didn't happen, I would much rather have kept on celebrating Gwen's success, than sipped tea with people who didn't dare to discuss the war."

Perhaps this was not quite what he had meant, but Tom didn't have the heart to correct her, happy to see her happy again, and not sad because of him. Glancing at the road in front of him, he then turned to look at her over his shoulder. It was a nuisance that the only time he could speak to her properly was in the motor, but he would have to make do. For now he couldn't' decide if he should ask her about the war, or about Gwen, who was had left her job at the Abbey just the other day. In the end his interest in Lady Sybil's well-fare won over their common political interests. The war would keep.

"Will you miss her?"  
>"Gwen? Yes, I will. I think she will be a great secretary though and I'm so glad she can make something of herself."<p>

"It was all because you believed in her, you know."

For a moment there was no reply, and as he looked back, she was staring thoughtfully out the window. A bump in the road recalled his attention to his task, and for a moment there was silence, but a more comfortable one than before. When she suddenly spoke, Tom had to strain his ears over the sounds of the motor to hear what she's saying, she's speaking so low.

"I just wish I could do what she did, make something of myself."

"You will, my lady." Maybe he said it with a little too much conviction, but she didn't seem to notice. He did believe in her, because he recognized in her the will to change things, to try and improve the world. It was the same conviction that told him that he wouldn't always be a chauffeur, that the war would change things. But she just smiled that polite smile – the only smile of hers he didn't like – and kept looking out the window.

Tom was just about to unwrap the sandwich that Mrs Patmore had sent with him for lunch, when lady Sybil quite suddenly exited Mrs Crawley's house and walked up to the motor again. She was looking rather annoyed, clasping her bag carelessly, her hat on a little crooked. She had clearly left the house in some hurry, and right after her Mrs Crawley came as well, looking harried.

"I'm sorry my dear, for having to cut your visit so short."

"Of course not, cousin Isobel," Lady Sybil replied. "I think the work you do at the hospital is marvellous."

The older woman kissed her cheek with a distracted smile and then hurried away. Huffing a little lady Sybil looked after her, while Tom put his sandwich back on the seat beside him. It seemed both he and lady Sybil was to go without lunch today.

"It must be nice to have people rely on you like that," she said, casting one last glance at Mrs Crawley's retreating back, before looking down and fiddling with her handbag. She didn't say it, but Tom could read it in her face anyway, clearer than he had ever guessed any of her emotions: she felt more useless now than ever, being so drastically reminded of how much free time she had. It was enough and his decision was made in a second.

"It seems you are without both lunch and company then, my lady. Might I offer my assistance?"

He could see her hesitating, obviously uncertain of what he was suggesting or planning. In the end her good nature and curiosity won out, and she nodded with mock dignity.

"Very well, young man, I accept."

Her smile was more than the encouragement he needed, and he helped her into the car with stiff correctness, his nose in the air copying the old chauffeur. She was giggling, trying to keep serious and play on, but failing. It warmed his heart to see her looking so young and happy, not worried or sad. Getting behind the wheel, he steered the motor out of Ripon again, towards his secret destination. He could feel her playfulness cool into curiosity and nervousness behind him, as they left the village, but it actually amused him. Clearly lady Sybil wasn't very used to surprises.

"Branson, where are we really going?" It sounded as if she wanted to trust him, wanted to be patient and wait and see, but didn't have what it took to keep silent. The bitter notion welled up, that she was nervous where he would take her, that she didn't trust him enough, but he pushed it away.

"I thought you would like to see how us normal folks have picnics," he said, taking a left turn and coming to a full stop, their destination reached. As the motor cooled and the sound of the engine died away, other sounds became apparent; a small brook passing by merrily, birds singing and the wind faintly rustling the trees. All good sounds, the sort one didn't hear in the formal gardens at Downton. Jumping out, Tom helped lady Sybil out, admiring her profile as she looked around her at the little meadow.

"It's beautiful. How did you know it was here?"

"I didn't, but I've passed it on the road many times and thought it seemed a nice enough spot."

"But we didn't bring any food," lady Sybil said, a frown on her face. Obviously she was having a hard time imagining from where the linen and silver would be produced.

"Well, if it's agreeable to you I have a sandwich we can share," Tom said lightly, unsure if the concept of sharing food with a servant might be some ultimate social sin he didn't know about. The unconvinced look lingered on her face until he took out the rug from the motor and spread it invitingly on the ground. Gesturing at it grandly, he did tease a smile from her and at length she came and sat down gingerly, arranging her skirts around her feet as to not get them dusty. Grabbing the sandwich from the front seat, Tom sat down next to her and took off his driving gloves. She was sitting very primly, back straight and hands in her lap. Catching him glancing at her, she bit her lip and frowned for a moment, before laughing.

"Don't look at me like that, I haven't been on a real picnic since Edith and me took our dolls for one when we were children. Mrs Hughes had made us tiny scones and we commandeered one of the footmen to carry the basket for us."

Unwrapping the sandwich and carefully breaking it in half, Tom handed her one half before brushing the crumbs of his trousers. The vision of lady Sybil as a child was adorable; it was surprisingly easy to imagine her as a child, probably because she still retained an easy charm that was reminiscent of childishness.

"We always went for picnics on my mum's birthday," Tom supplied as he watched her nibble her sandwich half daintily. It felt a little strange telling her things about himself that was personal, but it was no more than fair since he already knew so much about her. "She'd bake for days, and then she'd force us all to go, however the weather turned out." While he loved his mother, Tom never found her as forceful in person as she sounded on the few occasions when he mentioned her. But a woman raising a large family in Dublin had to have a strong will. Unaware of his thoughts, lady Sybil smiled and swallowed carefully before speaking.

"That sounds lovely. Much nicer than dull dinner parties anyway." For a moment she looked as if she was on the verge of saying something more, but then she looked down and took another bite of the sandwich. Studying her, Tom wondered what she had been about to say and what had stopped her, but he knew he couldn't push her. He finished his half of the sandwich in two more bites, and was aware that he'd probably be starved by the time it was supper, but it was well worth it. At least he could do more interesting things until then than unpack his shopping and change for dinner.

Relaxing in the cool grass, Tom leaned on his elbow and crossed his ankles. The moment might not last for long, so he might as well enjoy it. Lady Sybil was looking very pretty, her hat shading her pale face and her dress a soft colour of blue. He'd noticed that her mother seemed to have picked out one colour for each of her daughters, dressing lady Sybil most often in shades of blue. At first he'd had a good reason for noticing, because his sisters often begged him for news of the London fashion (strangely he seemed to be their best source), but after his feelings for lady Sybil grew stronger he just noticed because it was _her_.

"It must be hard being away from them," she said softly, and for a moment Tom was even confused about what she meant, his thoughts having moved so far from his family. As he caught up with her, he shrugged, not feeling quite comfortable talking about his family in more detail.

"My sisters found work in Dublin, but one of my younger brothers went to England as well. We all write a lot of letters." Maybe it came off as a little flippant, but it was nothing but the truth with the sentiment taken out of it. Lady Sybil had never spent much time without her parents or sisters, she couldn't understand what it was like to have a large family and then watch it spread on the winds of the world.

"Maybe you can visit your brother sometime then?" She spoke softly, obviously meaning it as a positive message, something he could look forward to, but to Tom the only thing that became obvious was that she had no idea how many days of the year he had to work. He wasn't like Mr Carson or Mrs Hughes who seemed to live for their work at Downton, but he had no more freedom than they did. Tom couldn't help but loose his temper a little with her naivety.

"Your father is a generous man, but not even he would like to be without his chauffeur for days on end," he replied darkly, before he could bite his tongue. It broke the peace between them and the calm around them. Lady Sybil frowned at him, obviously peeved and having a certain level of pride herself.

By mutual agreement it was soon time to go back to Downton. During the trip back both the lady and the chauffer sat wondering how their agreeable picnic could have ended on such disagreeable terms. But while lady Sybil attributed it to a misunderstanding of some sort, Tom Branson sighed while he cleaned the motors and hoped for a day when she would understand.


	3. Blood

**Chapter 3: Blood**

_I had very ambitious plans for this little fic, plans that of course fell rather flat after series 2 ended (and with it my creative energy apparently). Now that series 3 has started I will try to finish up and post what I had written for the series before, and then possibly get started on all the new ideas._

_Also, I know Tom and Sybil briefly discussed her work in S02E02, but I felt something more was needed than that._

**Early 1917**

The course was finished, and while it had left Sybil feeling both shocked and eager, she had never anticipated how working at the hospital in Ripon would be. When she had arrived this morning, one of the doctors had been about to saw a man's leg off, a procedure she knew about in theory, but hadn't helped with in reality. His screams of pain was like needle pricks making her skin tingle, and when he finally passed out it wasn't any good, because that only made her focus on the amount of blood pouring from the wound. And then the rest of the day continued like it had started, one awful moment after another, almost as if the hospital had tried it's best to confront her with the most ugly and horrible things all in her first day.

At noon a man died, drowning from the fluids that had gathered in his lungs. Just after the short tea break the nurses had, drinking it scalding hot and on their feet, another man took a turn for the worst and had to be rushed off in a hurry to see if his life could be saved.

War was an ugly, ugly thing, and when her first day was over, Sybil couldn't even think about tomorrow, the day after tomorrow – the rest of the week and the month, without feeling like a foolish, weak little girl that only wanted to run home to her mama.

When Tom came around the bend, he could see her standing outside the hospital, clearly waiting for him already. It surprised him, because the weeks since her return to Downton, he had been forced to send someone into the hospital to fetch her, because lady Sybil didn't want to stop working. Not today though. As the motor drew nearer though, he could see the paleness of her cheeks, how in one day she had seemed to become both gaunt and frail; her usually brilliant eyes lacklustre.

"Good afternoon, milady."

She looked at him, and got in the back of the car before he could even move around to help her in. Well inside she merely slumped against the backrest, looking gloomily out of the window. While things had been strained between them since her return, this was not a silence he knew. This dull, heavy thing filling the car had nothing to do with his feelings or her confusion over her own.

As they neared Downton she roused and showed a little interest again, eyes darting around the entrance of the house.

"Please leave me around the back," she said, so silently he had to strain his ears to even hear her. "I can't deal with Carson bowing right now."

Tom nodded and let the motor pass by the front door, coming to stop outside the garage instead. Slowly he stepped out, wanting to give her another moment, but when he came around to open her door, she didn't move, just turning her head to stare at him.

"There was an officer who died today, we didn't even know his name. All I could do was hold his hand and tell him it was going to be all right, while in reality I knew he only had minutes left."

Tom stood holding the door, waiting for her to either continue speaking or exit the car.

"Then there was another man, I think he was from the village because I remember seeing him with the butchers cart before the war. He arrived with a horrible wound on his leg and it festered. Today they had to saw it off…there was so much blood."

Never had he known the social barriers between them like this moment. All Tom wanted was to take her in his arms, comfort her, one human being to another. But she was a lady, not just a human being, and any contact between them had to be initiated by her.

"Why do people go to war? Who decides that it is worth lives – deaths! – to win a piece of land or glory. We live in an age of such brilliance, and yet our minds are as barbaric as ever. Can the human race never change?"

"I think it can," Tom said lowly. "That is what politics is about, change for the good of all, improving the lives of those who suffer!"

Finally moving, Sybil leaned forward, her eyes blank with tears, her face very tense.

"But even politics wont bring back all these dead men, it wont take away the suffering, it wont give legs or arms or eyes back…" Her voice ended on a sob, and the very composed and controlled lady Sybil suddenly seemed to be on the verge of a breakdown. Tom had seen her impassioned before, happy and even angry, but he had never seen her cry. He wasn't certain if that was the English in her, or the fine lady, but one of the two was even now forcing her to try and swallow feelings that would not be pushed away.

Holding out his hand, Tom as much hauled her out of the car, as helped her. Looking towards the servant's entrance, he didn't see anyone, so he thought quickly and then took her arm and steered her towards the garage. She went willingly, and maybe later he could think on that and perhaps let it warm his heart how implicitly she trusted him, but right now he was too worried for her. Leading her into the garage, he sat her down on the little stool by the workbench, his hand lingering on her upper arms as he made sure that she wouldn't topple over. Crouching in front of her, Tom waited until she lifted her eyes to meet his, and then spoke.

"Sit here for a moment, my lady, and I will go make you a cup of strong tea. Nothing like tea to help sort out one's mind, my mum always's says."

He thought he saw a glimmer of interest in her dull eyes for a moment, but then it was gone and she nodded, clasping her hands together in her lap, clearly trying to compose herself.

Never had a kettle cooked so slowly. While he waited, Tom rummaged around his tiny stove, preparing the only cup he had and then as he poured the tea, adding a dose of Irish whiskey. He carried it back as quick as he could and some of it slopped over his hands, but while it stung he didn't slow down.

"Here you go, milady."

She seemed to have recuperated a little already, and as she sipped the tea carefully she made a face and smiled a tiny smile at him.

"Whisky," she said and it wasn't a question. "I never took you for a drinker."

"I'm Irish," he teased her gently. "I have a bottle for emergencies."

Leaning against the workbench he watched her drink the tea, a little colour slowly seeping back into her cheeks. He had so many things he wanted to tell her, but all of them were of the kind that would make her retreat from him again. In the end he opted for a truth that wasn't likely to make her run, it had nothing to do with his feelings, at least not much.

"You are very brave, my lady, to go to work every morning and do what you do."

Lady Sybil flinched, as if the mention of work brought back the difficult memories, but then she took a deep breath. Her eyes seemed older as they met his, as if during these few months the things she had seen and done had aged her years not months. As he considered how they had parted ways before her course in York and the new determination in her eyes when she returned again, he thought that perhaps she had. Never before had she left her home after all, never before had she been exposed to a world less gilded and beautiful than her childhood home.

"At first I was glad for something to do, but now I'm not so sure anymore."

The admission came softly, on a sigh, but the grief seemed to have passed or turned into despondency. Lady Sybil was staring into the tea cup, and Tom was staring at her. He had missed her while she was gone, her being in York robbing him of even the chance of setting eyes on her every other day.

"At first I was glad to be away, to be useful and to do something of myself – like Gwen did!" Lady Sybil lifted her eyes then, knowing that it was a happy memory they shared but as she found him staring she flinched and looked down again. "But now I don't know."

Her slim hands were twisting around the mug, and as he finally lowered his gaze, Tom noticed there was a few dark smudges of dried blood on the cuff of her dress. He wanted to find the perfect thing to say to help her regain her determination and courage, but he was cowardly afraid to say the wrong thing. He had, in York, he knew that now. She hadn't been ready and when the bitterness had finally left him he could see that. But just as it had taken all he had to say those words to her then, as much did he fear speaking to her now. What if again he said the wrong thing and ended up pushing her away more, when what he wanted was the complete opposite. So Tom stayed crouched before her, offering a listening ear but no words of comfort.

"At the training course I heard them, you know," lady Sybil continued at last, speech pouring out of her when everything between them had been stilted and dry for weeks. "The other girls at the course, they didn't like me at first. I tried to make friends, but they only saw a rich girl playing at being a nurse. I tried to tell them I didn't care for any of that, I just wanted to work and do a real job, but they wouldn't believe me."

"I believe you."

For all his decision not to act rash, Tom's tongue spoke before his brain caught up. He winced, then met her surprised gaze as she suddenly stared back at him, without any trace of blush or confusion.

"You are the bravest person I know, milady." Tom said, filling the silence he had created, hoping – no, praying! – that the words he picked wouldn't be the wrong ones. "Because you're the daughter of a nobleman, and still you strive to do your part." He could have continued, words were lining up in the back of his throat ready to be used ('_Because you are bright and wonderful, a true lady in the sense the word ought to be used. Because you have the courage to befriend a chauffeur and hand out pamphlets about women's right to vote and help house maids become secretaries. Because I love you._'). It seemed the words were the right ones, because the frown slowly disappeared from her face.

Sybil stared down at Branson, a little shocked at being called brave but very pleased that he believed in her. It was the belief of others that had sent her to York, Cousin Isobel, her grandmother, even her mother in the end. She hadn't known she could do it, be a real nurse and after today she had been certain that she was a ridiculous coward doomed to fail. It seemed it only took the faith of one other person to make her remember her determination again; perhaps it helped that that person was Branson who never lied to her.

Life would never be all pretty, she decided, inside our outside a hospital. Life was a dirty, painful thing but she realised she preferred to know that rather than be locked away inside Downton Abbey, pretending nothing could ever touch her. This was life, in all it's ugliness and only if she went out tomorrow and faced it could she find the things that were beautiful and important and worth continuing on for.

"Thank you," she said at last, when Branson's face had began looking a little worried at her silence. "For helping me put everything in perspective."

Sybil drew a long breath of air tinged with motor oil and car polish into her lungs and released it slowly. Then she squared her shoulders and looked over Branson's shoulder out into the darkness of the yard outside.

"Any time, milady," Branson replied, his mouth curled into a half smile. Sybil smiled back and although she knew it wasn't her bright smile from before the war, she felt much more like herself.

She rose and half a second after she did, Branson stood as well, making them almost bump into each other awkwardly. He moved away at once, giving her space and again Sybil felt a flare of thankfulness towards him. He hadn't mentioned his proposal again, or any other subject that might fluster her and she was slowly forgetting her anger over the ill-timed discussion.

"Thank you," she repeated again, handing him the cup. He took it, and when their fingers brushed she was the one who didn't pull away as quickly. "My shift begins at half seven tomorrow, could you take me?" Of course, she could as well walk, but it was comforting to start her day with a ride in the car, before facing her duties at the hospital. And it was not as if she was demanding the car in that imperative way Mary always spoke to Branson.

"I will be ready and waiting, lady Sybil," Branson replied, his eyes suddenly burning with that emotion she couldn't handle especially well.

Nodding, and managing a smile, lady Sybil Crawley fled the garage, not feeling especially brave at all, but at least not afraid either.

_Putting things out there for others to read is hard, please leave a not if you appreciate it or have any thoughts. Thank you.  
><em>


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